The Joys of Messiaen
by Naranne
Summary: In which Sherlock tortures his violin, lectures John on the benefits of music history  and indeed history in general, and spouts enough information on Messiaen to fill a small essay. ;; No prompt, but still a one-shot. Gen, squint-worthy pre-slash.


**A/N: **Sherlock/John if you squint. And tilt your head sideways, and possibly turn the monitor upside-down.

I combined fandom and study, and voila, here is the result. I rather like it.

**_Disclaimer: _**Anything you recognise does not belong to me.

* * *

When John arrived home, he knew from the fragments of screeching violin piercing his ear-drums that Mycroft had visited. However, there was something different about the squawks this time, he thought, as he paused on the threshold of the living room – for one, he almost found that he _recognised_ the infernal sounds. Why, if he listened hard enough (as he lay in bed that night, he would question why he had subjected his ears to it, for he found it rather hard to sleep when there was a constant screeching replaying in his mind), he could discern patterns and order to the chaos – after a moment, John realised that the reason he had recognised it was because the violin sounded vaguely like a nightingale. Vaguely, however, being the operative word.

The detective had his back to him, facing the windows and, John could only assume, looking out into the street. His violin was perched on his shoulder, and his bowing arm worked furiously as he continued to force unholy high notes from the instrument. From past experience, John knew that Sherlock was aware he was there, even if an ordinary person might not have noticed him come up the stairs, had they been as caught up in playing as Sherlock appeared to be. However, Sherlock was _not_ an ordinary person; as John moved into the small kitchen to deposit the groceries on the table, he called over his shoulder, "So what did he want this time?"

"Nothing of importance." Even though John had his back to the other man, he could hear the dismissal in Sherlock's voice, and read his anger in the somewhat vicious stream of notes that followed. However, knowing Mycroft's occupation, John found it somewhat hard to believe that the older Holmes had requested "nothing of importance" – rather, John translated that mentally to mean, "He can do it himself, so why should I have bothered?"

Moments later, after John had put away the groceries (he hadn't even considered the option of asking Sherlock to help) and settled in his armchair with a steaming mug of tea, he finally blurted, having had rather enough of the violin's torturous squeaking, "What are you even playing, exactly?"

"_Quatuor pours la fin du Temps_, Movement I: _Liturgie de Cristal_," Sherlock answered, without turning away from the window.

John blinked, trying to make sense of what he had been told – in truth, amongst all the French, all he had understood was "Movement I", and even then, his musical knowledge was so limited that he had only the vaguest idea of what a "Movement" was meant to be, anyway. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Quartet for the End of Time. The first Movement, Liturgy of Crystal." His matter-of-fact, part exasperation and part annoyed tone informed John that the detective considered that all the clarification he should need.

Fighting the urge to sigh himself, John rested his elbows on his knees, cradled his tea in his hands, and took a fortifying sip. "Who's it by?"

In answer, he was sent a fleeting look as if to ask if he really, actually knew anything of any use, and John was sorely tempted to bring up the solar system, but refrained. "Olivier Messiaen," Sherlock replied brusquely, fixing John with his patented are-you-really-that-stupid half-glare that made the police quail. John wondered for a moment whether it was a sign of his approaching insanity that all the effect it had upon him was that he merely had an urge to roll his eyes.

Pretending to know who Sherlock was talking about – if his guess was worth anything, the guy was French, at least, going by the flowery title Sherlock had first given him – John nodded, searched for the book he had picked up on the way home, and hoped that would be the end of the issue.

"And you say _I _don't know anything of use."

John squeezed his eyes shut tightly and attempted to count to ten, but was interrupted at eight by – "Don't they teach soldiers history?"

"How is a music guy –"

"Composer."

"What?"

"Messiaen was primarily a composer."

"Right. Anyway," John continued, knowing this was a futile argument but his stubborn streak refusing to let him drop the issue, "what does a composer have to do with the history of war, precisely?"

Sherlock sighed and tucked his violin under his arm, turning to face John and pointing his bow toward him. "Everything. Art is one of the most accurate ways of tracing history, and that includes war."

John opened his mouth to interject, but was cut off. Sherlock had stormed to the other side of the room, thrown himself dramatically down on the sofa, placed the instrument carefully to one side and then mirrored John's posture, elbows on knees. However, he then proceeded to steeple his fingers and glare at John with incredulity. "Messiaen worked as a medical orderly for the French army in the Second World War. After Hitler's push in May – June of 1940, German troops moved past Belgium and captured several French troops, including Olivier Messiaen. It was in the camp Stalag VIIIA that the _Quatuor_ was composed."

He frowned, momentarily confused as to how Sherlock knew such inane details about music and yet could not grasp simple facts such as the Earth moving around the sun, or who was current Prime Minister.

"I'm a violinist, John."

John gaped for a second, before remembering who exactly he was talking to, and that Sherlock had probably deduced his train of thought by a stray glance, or the level of the tea in his mug.

"I'm a violinist and a consulting detective. It stands to reason that I would know a lot about music as well, then, don't you think?"

Sighing, John muttered, "Yes, Sherlock."

* * *

If John had thought that conversation to be the end of lectures on various random titbits of music, he had been wrong, for the following morning as he came into the kitchen (intent on making tea and toast with jam, and then doing little else until he woke up properly) John was greeted by the sounds of discordant scales from the tortured string instrument. Raising an eyebrow at the fact that his flatmate was standing in the exact same place as John had found him upon returning home last night, his blue dressing gown hanging loosely from his shoulders and the violin once more perched upon his shoulder, he shook his head and set about making breakfast, determined not to start up another argument.

As he slathered raspberry jam liberally on his slightly burnt toast, he struggled to remember the name of the composer Sherlock had told him about the previous night, and wondered whether the screeches had anything to do with the discordance of this morning. Knowing it would be just another way for Sherlock to demonstrate his superior intellect and make John feel totally stupid, he pushed down his curiousity and instead, asked, "Are you going to eat anything? While I've got it all out."

"Just tea for me, thanks."

Shuddering at the reminder that errant comment brought – and very, _very_ glad there had been no surprise body parts in the fridge that morning – he made himself and Sherlock tea to their own specifications, and settled his own beside his plate of half-eaten toast before bringing Sherlock's into the living room. As he put it down on the small table, he caught the last part of something that Sherlock had muttered under his breath.

"Pardon?"

"Modes of limited transposition," Sherlock clarified, waving his hands dismissively.

Deciding it was _definitely_ too early to be dealing with statements of which a single word he didn't understand, John raised his eyebrows, sighed slightly, and asked (against his better judgment, mind), "Something else by that music g— composer – Messin, I think."

"Yes. Something to do with the composer, whose name, by the way, is _Messiaen_."

"Care to explain? Wait, never mind. Forget I asked." John walked out, remembering his toast and hoping it was still warm.

"Unlikely." He could positively hear the smirk on Sherlock's face, even if he could not see it. He braced himself for the oncoming torrent. "Messiaen was devoutly religious, and as such was highly familiar with the church modes – scales built on the varying degrees of the major scale. However, he was an incredibly innovative thinker, especially so concerning pitch – he enjoyed symmetric scales, but in particular favoured those scales which could only be transposed a certain number of times before the pitches repeat themselves."

Leaning against the kitchen bench, trying to pretend he understood, wasn't slightly exasperated, and wasn't slightly surprised that Sherlock had followed him, John took a large bite of toast so as to halt the need for any conversational input on his part.

"Like the whole tone scale, which can only be started on either C or C sharp. Any other note and it merely is the same scale, but beginning on a different note." He played a flurry of notes to demonstrate. "However, Messiaen preferred not to compose with that scale, as he felt that it had been too fully explored by previous composers." Sherlock frowned. "You really don't understand, do you?"

Wanting, for some reason, to answer that yes, he _did_ understand, if only to alleviate some of the disappointment on Sherlock's face, John remained tactfully (he thought) silent. Sherlock sighed. "It's interesting, even if I don't fully understand it," John found himself saying, and his flatmate's expression instantly brightened.

John chuckled bemusedly into his tea, hoping that Sherlock had not noticed.

"Music is generally composed in different keys, each of which has a different feel. However, Messiaen wanted to go beyond the traditional boundaries of Western music – like Beethoven before him, he was an innovative thinker – and so he thought of _other_ scales, different from the traditional major or minor keys. Not all are original – his second mode, for example, was used by Stravinsky before him – heard of him? _Good_ – and yet Messiaen still managed to utilise them in original ways."

John nodded slowly, glad, at least, that Sherlock was genuinely talking out of his own interest, instead of out of the inherent need he seemed to sometimes have to patronise everyone of lesser intellect around him. "So by using … scales that aren't traditional he managed –"

"To produce new, innovative music. Such as the _Quatuor pours la fin du Temps_. The first movement of which – _Liturgie de Cristal_ – uses modes one, two, and three. Incidentally, it was composed for piano, cello, clarinet and violin," Sherlock added, as if the instruments used were far less important than the intricate technicalities of the composer's methods. John could see the appeal for someone like Sherlock, in a way. To his highly strung mind, music that was somewhat new, twentieth-century and avant-garde must have seemed like yet another code to crack.

"I noticed you recognised it a little, even if you hate the sounds."

John started to protest, but Sherlock (_again_ – the man had an infuriating habit of doing so) cut him off. "Messiaen was an ornithologist, as it happens. The clarinet line is meant to imitate the call of the blackbird, whilst the violin imitates a nightingale."

Feeling that perhaps he had actually understood something, for once – if anything, he could imagine why a musician would be inspired by birdsong; birds did, after all, have their own music, of a sort – John nodded with realisation. Sherlock grinned at him, before returning to his position in front of the window, and beginning to play again. Despite himself, John listened to the sounds with somewhat more respect, having taken on board what his flatmate had told him, even if it had started out as a patronising lecture.

As he settled down into his armchair, listening and observing, he noticed that Sherlock's tea was untouched, and shook his head, letting out a small laugh. Sherlock paused in his playing, turning his head to regard the doctor. "What?"

"How do you _remember_ all this?"

For the second time that morning – no, he was not keeping count – Sherlock grinned widely at him, and tapped the side of his head with his violin bow. "Hard drive."

* * *

**A/N:** fffffaskdjfh exams.

This was posted ages ago on my LiveJournal; I am trying desperately to force myself into a creative mood so I am going back over old stories.

I also just lost my USB, so I want as many copies of everything as I can.

Shameless self-promotion, woop, woop.

Naranne.


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